The Black Madonna

by Peter Millar

  A quick check of the Heathrow Terminal 3 online arrivals list for the relevant time window offered Osaka, Lagos and Mumbai as possible embarkation points for the woman, but also Cairo and Kuwait as well as a delayed flight from Istanbul – why did she seem familiar, and where, if anywhere, did she fit into the bigger picture? The trouble was, Delahaye mused, as he scrolled the video footage from the Heathrow camera forward, frame by frame, that he was no longer at all sure what the bigger picture was going to look like. It was as if he was collecting ever more pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but had lost the photograph on the lid.

  He turned his head back to the single screen in the room that was displaying data rather than images and scrolled once again through the information the system had collected on Frey: thirty-five years of age, South African by birth, Rhodes Scholar at Magdalen College, Oxford, currently research fellow in comparative historiography – whatever that was – at All Souls. Not a professor, but an academic of some standing nonetheless, with a couple of books to his name, notably the one on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict which had aroused anger in Jewish circles, although it had been praised as remarkably impartial by non-partisan reviewers.

  Delahaye was not a huge fan of the ivory towers and their left-leaning inmates but Frey wasn’t an obvious reason to be an assassination target for a bunch of mad mullahs. Something here didn’t look right on the face of it. If, Delahaye wondered, glancing sidelong once more at the strangely familiar picture of the girl, he was looking at the right face. Given Al Barani’s interest wasn’t it more likely she had been the target, not him?

  A glass chime announced the arrival of an incoming instant message. A small avatar of cartoon punk announced it was from the indefatigable Chloe, working late again – or was it early by now – the sort of information scientist who made her business seem like a black art: ‘Still chasing more stuff on this guy, Frey,’ she said, ‘but a few things popped straight out of the hat. I took a quick skim, but decided you’d probably want to take a look yourself. We may have found the connection.’

  17

  The sun rose pale and watery in a flaccid sky dimly glimpsed through grimy net curtains. Marcus opened his eyes wide and saw Nazreem’s dark hair spread across a candlewick coverlet. They were both fully clothed.

  As pandemonium engulfed Brick Lane, they had abandoned the now useless car and ducked back into the side streets behind Spitalfields Market. There were three Tube stops within running distance. But the two closest, Aldgate and Aldgate East, were on lines with fewer trains; the last thing they wanted was to be trapped on an Underground platform. Marcus still had the sound of the gunshot ringing in his ears, followed by the scream of ‘Murder’. Someone had died, and he was sure it had been intended to be one of them. Or both.

  Dashing into the station, they had gone down to the Central line platform, deliberately ignoring the Metropolitan and Circles lines that also ran through Aldgate or Whitechapel. Nazreem had surprised him by producing a pre-paid London Transport Oyster card. He wondered where she had got it, but now wasn’t the time to ask. They travelled three stops to Chancery Lane, a station that was bustling in daytime but relatively quiet out of business hours and got out onto the platform alone. Sure for once that this time they had not been followed, they climbed the stairs to the street. They were within walking distance of their hotel but one thing was clear to both of them.

  It was Nazreem who said it first walking down Holborn in the late evening drizzle: ‘We can’t go back.’

  Marcus nodded. That much was obvious. Marcus had used his credit card to pay upfront for their rooms and had left nothing in his room, not even a toothbrush, not having planned to spend the night away from Oxford. Nazreem, however, was different.

  ‘What about your things?’ he asked. ‘Your clothes, the big bag, all those books?’

  She simply shook her head: ‘It’s not a problem.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘While … while you were resting, at the hotel, I … I went out.’

  Marcus let her talk. Maybe she was going to come clean with him at last. It was about time. Whatever was going on in her life it wasn’t another man. Not unless he was extremely jealous.

  ‘I took the books to the person they were intended for, at the British Museum. I meant to tell you. It’s just, it didn’t seem …’

  ‘Important?’ Marcus smiled. It made sense, sort of.

  ‘Yes, it was just an errand. That’s when I got the travel card.’

  Marcus’s smile faded. He had seen her get into a taxi. But then perhaps she had picked up the Oyster card on the way back. He let it ride. For the moment they had more pressing problems.

  ‘What about everything else? Clothes, passport, money?’

  She patted her shoulder bag. Everything I need is in here. The clothing is not important: just jeans, shirts. Remember, I live in Gaza. The dispossessed have few possessions.’

  Marcus turned and grabbed her by the shoulders, gently but firmly, looking her straight in the eye.

  ‘Nazreem, what’s happening? Who were those people? Why are they after you?’

  She sighed, deeply, a weary sigh that could have been fatigue or exasperation, and looked him direct in the eyes: ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

  ‘You realise they may have killed someone tonight.’

  ‘The Israelis kill many … every day …’

  ‘Nazreem, those were not Israelis. You heard them, for G …’ he had been about to say ‘for God’s sake’ but thought better of it. ‘They had the waiters in the palm of their hands. One of them talked about an imam.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘We should go to the police.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Do you? I am a Muslim, a Palestinian. How much time do you think the British police would give me?’

  Marcus thought about it, and realised they would give her a lot more time than she imagined. Far more than she would want. Most of Britain’s huge Muslim community were decent law-abiding folk who abhorred violence, but 9/11 and the Iraq war had polarised sections of society, even before the London bomb attacks sent a frisson of horror the length and breadth of the country threatening to destroy Britain’s already fragile multi-ethnic consensus. The fact that most Islamic extremists cited the Palestinian situation as justification for terror would hardly help them.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘We need to find somewhere to sleep. We can think about it in the morning.’

  The guesthouses around Paddington were a step down even from the tawdry Country Hotel, but they asked no questions and were more than happy with cash. Nazreem looked askance at the double bed in the only room offered them, then lay down on it, curled into a foetal ball and within minutes was asleep. Marcus kicked off his shoes and lay next to her, flat on his back and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like hours until eventually sleep overtook him too.

  Now, in the pallid light of morning he looked at the young woman still asleep next to him. He longed to put his arm around her, at least to stroke her hair, but he knew that to do so without invitation would be taking a liberty. Something had happened to her since he had last seen her, something worse than just this business with the missing icon or whatever it was. Something that had to explain why a gang of what appeared to be Muslim fundamentalists were trying to capture or kill her. And him if need be. And God knew who else.

  He got up, splashed water on his face from the tap in the cracked porcelain sink, scribbled a quick note in case she awoke, slipped on his shoes and made his way quickly downstairs. A smell of sour coffee and bacon fat accosted him. He opened the front door and went out. From an Italian sandwich shop on the corner opposite he picked up two polystyrene cups of strong espresso and a couple of fresh buttered rolls. At the entrance to the Tube he found a copy of a special edition of Metro, a free commuter newspaper put together in the early hours. The splash headline grabbed his attention immediately: �
�BRICK LANE SLAYING!’

  The front-page picture showed a scene of urban chaos: red-striped police cars, flashing lights, people wildly gesticulating. Beneath was a photograph, several years out of date, of a face Marcus recognised: Ali, the restaurant owner. The report said he had been shot once, in the head. Three people had been arrested, two of them waiters at the restaurant, but it was not clear which, if any, was suspected of being the killer. The murder weapon had not been found. There were rumours of gang wars between rival groups of Bengalis and Pakistanis. Some eyewitnesses had spoken of a young woman involved, and a white man. Police were asking for others to come forward. They were continuing their inquiries.

  Marcus cursed under his breath as he climbed the stairs back to their room. It was his fault Ali was dead. If he had not chosen that restaurant, if he had not over-reacted when the waiters began closing in on them … No, that at least was not a mistake. Whatever they wanted with Nazreem, it was nothing good. They had not been carrying weapons for show; they had proved that.

  When he opened the door, she was awake, sitting on the bed, staring at the carpet. She looked up when he came in and made an effort at a smile. He handed her the coffee and the roll. She set the roll aside but removed the plastic lid from the polystyrene cup and sipped at the hot, sweet coffee. He had ordered it with extra sugar, the way he knew she liked it. He was in two minds about showing her the paper; what had happened was no more her fault than his. He opened it at an inside page, folded it over and set it on the table. She lifted it anyway.

  Marcus sat on the end of the bed, drank his coffee and ate his roll and waited for the exclamation. He did not have to wait long. Within seconds Nazreem gave a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘It is not possible,’ she exclaimed. ‘This cannot have happened?’

  Marcus sighed. What was he to tell her? That they had unwittingly caused an innocent man’s death? That unless she came clean about whatever it was that his killers wanted from her – and he refused to believe she had no idea – then the same thing could happen again. He turned to face her, only to find that she was not looking at the front page of the paper at all, but at a story on the page to which he had casually folded it: a story on the foreign pages.

  ‘Merchant of Death loses heart – literally!’ the headline ran. ‘In a bizarrely gruesome case, German police are investigating how the severed heart of an Islamist terrorist, wanted in connection with the Madrid and London bombings, turned up in a Bavarian monastery within hours of his death in an Israel suicide bombing.’ He did a doubletake and read it again. It seemed bizarre all right, but he did not see how it affected them. The suicide bombing had taken place three days ago, he read, at Erez, the crossing point from Gaza into Israel.

  ‘Horrible story, but Nazreem, I have to tell you, something as bad happened last night. A man was killed almost in front of our eyes. Killed by accident. It was you they were gunning for.’

  She looked up at him with an expression of anguished resignation, and said quietly, ‘I know, I know. But this. This is connected. I know it is. It is part of it.’

  Marcus looked at her blankly. ‘Part of what? You think this, this piece of butchery in Germany, is significant? I simply don’t c. Do you think this has something to do with the theft from the museum?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t just think it. I know it.’

  ‘How? Why?’

  ‘For a start it was because of the industrial area around Erez that they were working on the road.’

  ‘I’m sorry, you’re losing me. The road?’

  ‘The road they were repairing when they came across the ruins of the church. The crossing is only a few miles at most from where we found the artefact,’ said Nazreem. ‘This is a signal, a message of some sort. We must go there.’

  ‘Erez?’ Marcus was confused.

  ‘No, Germany. This place, this monastery: Altötting, in Bavaria. Now.’

  ‘What? Why on earth …?’

  But Nazreem was already on her feet, splashing water on her face and checking the contents of her shoulder bag. ‘Don’t you see,’ she said impatiently. ‘Read the rest of it.’

  He did: ‘Police said they had no idea what the link could be between the Middle East, and a little town known chiefly for its Roman Catholic shrine to the black Madonna.’

  ‘You understand now?’ said Nazreem.

  Marcus shook his head. He didn’t understand anything.

  Nazreem reached out and took his hand with what was almost a look of pity.

  ‘Now I know where this road is leading me, but you do not have to come with me.’

  18

  Sebastian Delahaye rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. No wonder he was tired. It was gone seven a.m. It would be daylight out there. Real daylight, not just the images of it on the screens around the seventh-floor room, although, of course, strictly speaking those in real time were showing real daylight too.

  There was a slow dull ache along his forehead. It was time he had the optician check him over again; he had already been warned about the dangers of constant screen work. The bulky cathode ray tubes had long since been banished, but having thin OLED screens only meant there was room for more of them. For the last four hours, however, he had sat glued to just one.

  It had been fascinating work, though not as rewarding as he had hoped in the end. As he took another long look at the montage of images of Marcus Frey on the screen to his left, he realised he had acquired a grudging respect for the academic and analytical powers of the man. Even if he did not agree with his conclusions. Part of the problem of course, was working out exactly what the man’s conclusions were. At least now he had a keen idea of what ‘comparative historiography’ meant. He should have realised just from the titles of Frey’s books that this was a man few Islamic fundamentalists – and few Israelis either – would fail to have an opinion about. Promised Land or Stolen Land: Israel versus Palestine was not exactly a title that ducked controversy.

  Frey had tried to take both sides, not in order to find a compromise, but to show how they had both ended up at the extremes. Delahaye could imagine there were hardline Zionists out there who accused Frey of ‘moral equivalising’, the sort of people who insisted the word ‘Holocaust’ could apply to one historical event only and that Palestine had been a ‘land with no people’. Dr Frey was a man who liked going walkabout in political minefields, and not on tiptoes either.

  Chloe, in her unfettered brilliance, had dug up all the published reviews including those from the New Statesman, the Guardian, The Spectator and The Sunday Times, as well as the Rand Daily Mail, Jewish Chronicle and several others. Most significantly she had also found a filleted copy of a brief done by the ‘other lot’, the boys and girls in their big green building on Vauxhall Bridge – popularly known as MI6. It was an analysis of Frey’s work’s impact on intellectual circles in the Middle East. Not great, was the conclusion, but not negligible either. For a young man he had made a bit of a splash. For Delahaye the question was whether it was big enough to drown him.

  Chloe had also produced huge segments of the original text. Under an unpublicised agreement, all copies of new publications sent as required to the British Library were vetted by government advisers. Non-fiction with a political bent was scanned and made available online to a strictly limited government circulation. There was no point, as one of the techies commented when confronted with questions about copyright legislation, in waiting until it was all on Google.

  Delahaye sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. The reviews were all generally positive of Frey’s original approach, writing style, extensive research. It was in their interpretations that they differed. Or rather their interpretations of Frey’s interpretations. The man had made his name by turning accepted viewpoints of recent history on their head, and then turning them back again to see if they still looked the same. For example, in his first book he had chosen to resurrect some now deeply unfashionable attitudes towards Nelson Mandela, recalling that the man
universally regarded as a statesman and almost a saint had once been widely considered a terrorist. The problem that Frey concentrated on was that, although people now liked to say that it was only supporters of apartheid who thought like that, it was substantially accurate. Mandela had not only been an advocate of, but an active practitioner of what those who supported it called ‘the armed struggle’ but those on the other end called terrorism.

  Frey showed how in the aftermath of apartheid the myths that both sides had not only believed, but cultivated had been first glossed over, then abandoned and finally rewritten. The result was a functioning consensus based largely on hypocrisy and self-deception. His less than wholly reassuring conclusion was that this was no bad thing, but just because it was a happy ending it should not form the basis of reputable historical study.

  The second book, and this is where to Delahaye it got really interesting, dared to link ‘South Africa’s March to Freedom’ with ‘Israel’s Right to Exist’, both of which Frey controversially labelled ‘slogans rather than facts’. Frey outlined in detail how the young Mandela’s Umkhonto we Sizwe (Spear of the Nation) paramilitary wing of the African National Congress was modelled on Irgun, the Zionist action group labelled terrorists by the British in the 1940s, but that went on to provide mainstays of the Israeli army and government. Frey then ‘squared the circle’, as he called it, by comparing Mandela with Yasser Arafat and Umkhonto we Sizwe with the Palestine Liberation Organisation, making the harshly ironic point that at least an element of Palestinian tactics was based on those originally employed by Israeli Jews.

  He went on to revise the familiar arguments about the right to exist of the Israeli state and how using history to decide land ownership depended on the choice of starting date. Israelis refuted Palestinian claims that they were land thieves by claiming it had been theirs in the first place, 2,000 years ago. But they rarely mentioned that their own holy book – the Christian Old Testament – was a story of the violent conquest of the indigenous Canaanites.